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November 22 Home After Three Months Away 最近看了点儿Lowell的诗，觉得淡而有致，便翻了一首：
Home After Three Months Away
Gone now the baby’s nurse,
a lioness who ruled the roost
and made the Mother cry.
She used to tie
gobbets of porkrind in bowknots of gauze---
three months they hung like soggy toast
on our eight foot magnolia tree,
and helped the English sparrows
weather a Boston winter.
Three months, three months!
Is Richard now himself again?
Dimpled with exaltation,
my daughter holds her levee in the tub.
Our noses rub,
each of us pats a stringy lock of hair---
they tell me nothing’s gone.
Though I am forty-one,
not forty now, the time I put away
was child’s-play. After thirteen weeks
my child still dabs her cheeks
to start me shaving. When
we dress her in her sky-blue corduroy,
she changes to a boy,
and floats my shaving brush
and washcloth in the flush…
Dearest, I cannot loiter here
in lather like a polar bear.
Recuperating, I neither spin nor toil.
Three stories down below,
a choreman tends our coffin’s length of soil,
and seven horizontal tulips blow.
Just twelve months ago,
these flowers were pedigreed
imported Dutchman; now no one need
distinguish them from weed.
Bushed by the late spring snow,
they cannot meet
another year’s snowballing enervation.
I keep no rank nor station.
Cured, I am frizzled, stale and small.
三个月后回家
孩子的看护走了，
雌狮子统治这个窝
发出母性的呼唤
她常习惯
用纱布把猪皮捆成结——
挂了三个月
像浸水面包挂在我们八尺高的木兰树上
方便英国麻雀
渡过波士顿的冬天。
三个月，三个月！
理查德是不是又成他自己呢？
兴奋的酒窝，
女儿在浴缸里建起了堤。
我们蹭着鼻子，
拍拍彼此柔韧的头发——
它们告诉我一切都在。
尽管过了四十一载，
不再是四十岁，我放走的时间
是孩童的游戏。十三个星期了
我的孩子仍拍打着脸颊
提醒我刮胡子。每当
我们给她穿上天蓝色的灯芯绒，
她就成了一个男孩儿，
摆弄我的剃须刷
和水里的毛巾…
亲爱的，我可不能在这儿闲逛
满身泡沫的北极熊
一点点恢复，不用再忙个不停，
楼下三层
工人照料着我们棺材大小的土地，
还有七排摇曳的郁金香。
就在十二个月前
荷兰人带来这些纯种的花
现在，没必要把它们
和杂草分开。
捱了晚春的雪
它们再难与下年的雪相遇。
去仕远职
我蜷缩着痊愈，陈旧而渺小 |
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